


the best you ever had

by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>five times Leo Messi surprised Cristiano Ronaldo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the best you ever had

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my lj. written for applegnat, who came up with this pairing.

1\. “Congratulations,” Cristiano Ronaldo tells Leo, so clearly insincere Leo has to smile a little bit. “You really deserved to win this...incredibly tacky statue.”

“Thanks,” Leo tells him, uncomfortable in his suit. “That means so much coming from you, especially since you clearly know tacky when you see it.” Then he looks down; surprised by himself.

Cristiano laughs. There’s an edge to it which makes Leo regret what he said. Leo saw him drinking out of a silver flask earlier; he looks kind of drunk now, his smile messy and his eyes sad. “I’ve never heard that one before,” Cristiano says. “Tell you what. Let me buy you and your tacky trophy a drink. To celebrate.”

Leo knows it’s a bad idea, already sees Xavi walking over to him, looking a little worried. Cristiano’s tie is coming undone.

“Yeah, yeah, that’d be great.”

  
2\. There are not many people Cris has woken up next to with incredulity. Leo Messi is one of them.

Cris is still trying to process it all when Messi sees his staring and _blushes_ and _kisses him on the cheek_. What the actual fuck.

"I'll go make us breakfast," Messi tells him, incredibly cheerful and not at all hung over. Cris kind of hates him.

The hotel suite really does have a kitchen, Cris discovers a few minutes later, when he stumbles towards the smell of coffee.

“Here,” Leo says, handing him a mug. Cris drinks it, burning his tongue, because Messi has hickeys on his neck and is wearing a pair of Cris’s shorts and nothing else. A FIFA Player of the Year award is on the table, looking uglier than usual.

“Whose is that?” Cris asks, because he figures that’s a good place to start. Messi blushes again. Cris watches it spread from his cheeks to his chest. Messi has a surprisingly good body.

“Um, mine,” Messi tells him, gulping. “Remember?”

Cris thinks he maybe does, a little bit. Shaking Messi’s hand, no hard feelings because really, who needs another meaningless award? He wasn’t bitter at all, nope, not a bit, so not bitter he offered to take Messi out drinking.

In retrospect, there were probably better ways to deal with his jealousy, but Cris has never been too good with feelings. He puts a hand on Messi’s shoulder and Leo’s whole body tenses. Cris leans in, brushing his lips against Messi’s ear. Messi swallows.

“The eggs are burning,” Cris whispers, and licks the shell of Messi’s ear. Messi’s eyes dart to the stove. He turns of the burner. Then he sticks his hand down Cris’s shorts.

“We can get room service,” Messi tells him. Cris nods distractedly, because yes, then can. Later.

“Oh god,” he says.

  
3\. Leo ends up going to Pep for advice. Ordinarily, he usually wouldn’t go to Pep for stuff like this, personal stuff; he’d talk to Xavi. But he can imagine how that conversation would go:

“So say I had sex with someone like three times in twelve hours. And we were both pretty drunk, but I’d like to do it again, a lot and also frequently. And I think he would too. Should I call him? Text him? What do I say?”

God knows what Xavi would say. He’d probably try his best, but Xavi’s relationship advice is fey at the best of times, as if he lives in some parallel universe where butterflies come flying out of the dew-covered bouquets of flowers he picks himself, every morning, for the lucky lady that occupies his affections. Leo has a feeling Cristiano would just laugh if Leo sent him flowers.

He does text Ronaldinho, before he tries Pep. They haven’t talked in a while. Leo does his best to keep in touch, but Ronaldinho’s attention span is brief at the best of times, and when he lives so far away from someone, well, it’s not really his fault that he doesn’t answer calls for weeks, it’s just how he is. But Leo has a lot less patience for “how Ronaldinho is” than he did three years ago, so yeah, he calls less.

So he texts Ronaldinho: _what do i say to someone after a drunk hook up if i want to do it again?_

A few minutes later, his phone buzzes.  
 _  
does she know who u are? cause then youll never get rid of her_

Leo laughs and texts back: _I dont think shes like that._  
 _  
Just wear a condom kid. Trust me_

Wow, Leo thinks, somewhat hysterically. That is completely unhelpful.

So that’s how he ends up outside of Pep’s office, hopping from foot to foot. He raises his hand and knocks.

“Come in,” Pep calls. Leo opens the door.

“Coach, can I ask you a, um, personal question” Leo asks, standing in the doorway, unsure.

Pep puts down the paper he was reading and gives Leo his full attention. He looks concerned. “Of course, Leo. Is something wrong?”

Leo steps in to his office and closes the door. “Not exactly? I was just wondering, um, if. Well. There’s this person and I kind of, yeah.” He looks down at his feet and blushes. “And I want to see them again. But I don’t really know what to say.”

Pep rests his head in his hands and takes a deep breath. Leo can hear him muttering to himself. He looks up.

“I would call her and tell her that you want to see her again. Maybe think of something fun you both like to do and invite her to do that? So that it seems less like you want to just see her to. You know.”

“Um, thank you, coach. That sounds good.” Leo’s standing up, smiling and blushing. Behind him, he hears Pep start to mutter to himself again.

That night, he pulls out his phone and texts Cristiano.

 _Ill be in madrid next week for an adidas thing. Wanna hang out?_

He looks at the text for a while. He presses send. He goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water, deliberately not taking his phone with him, because he doesn’t care that much. Really.

When he comes back, there’s a text waiting for him:

 _Sounds good. See u soon. ;)_

  
4\. Cris calls Leo.

“Fuck them,” Cris says, without preamble. Leo makes a little noise, probably surprise.

“One second,” he tells Cris, and then, “I’ve got to take this. It’s um. It’s important. So, I’ll be back soon? I’m sorry.” There’s a few seconds of silence and Cris sits on his couch, picking at the leather and resisting the urge to throw things at the wall.

“Sorry, I was talking to my agent,” Leo says. “What’s the matter? Is it Mourinho again?”

“Yes it fucking is,” Cris says, his hand a fist. “We had another ‘conversation’ today. It’s like, wow, I’m sorry I’ve only spent the best four years of my life making your club fabulously fucking successful. Could I maybe have another two days off to make sure I won’t need a wheelchair when I’m 40? And he’s all, ‘we really need you against Atletico, Cris’ and ‘you’re a symbol of this club, Cris.’ And when I tell him, no, my knee hurts and no, I really can’t play he tells me ‘for how much we pay you, you’ll do whatever I say and like it.’”

Leo makes a sympathetic noise. “He should know better than to rush your recovery. Maybe if your doctor talks to him, he’ll give you a little more time?” And this is why Cris calls Leo. He never calls Cris a diva. He gets that sometimes you just need a little more rest, that sometimes you have to think ahead to the World Cup.

“I have to see a fucking club doctor, so of course he says I’m clear and that I should expect some residual discomfort. Except this isn’t residual discomfort if I can barely fucking walk. Anyway, so I told Mourinho that if he wanted a whore he could talk to Cavalho and left.”

“Cris. Um.”

“Yeah, so it was stupid. I was mad. I just don’t know what to do. I can’t play like this. So they’re going to fine me or something. Whatever.”

“You could come to Barcelona” Leo says, all in one breath, so fast Cris almost doesn’t understand him.

Cris shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine it, just getting in a car (maybe the red Audi) and going. Arriving late on Friday, after practice, and fucking Leo when he’s tired, pliant. Waking up late, sucking Leo off in the shower. He’ll watch Barcelona play on tv, with the commentary on mute so he doesn’t have to hear people talk about him and Real. And then Leo’ll come home, keyed-up from victory. He grins, even as he knows he can’t.

“I’m gonna be in physical therapy this weekend,” Cris says. “So I’ll be ready for the Champion’s League, hopefully.”

“Obviously,” Leo says, kind-of laughing. “I didn’t mean this weekend. I meant you should transfer.”

And Cris just sits, stilled, and lets the beauty of that image surround him. Saying fuck you to everyone at Real so loudly they’d hear it even with their heads stuck up their asses. Walking off to the last best years of his career and winning it all (for the third time) with someone else. Him and Leo playing the kind of football that makes everyone shut the fuck up and look up and watch, forget about their history because Pele, Maradona, Zidane, who the fuck were they anyway? He imagines turning down millions and millions of euros, taking a pay cut just because he can. He imagines the press going insane, people burning him effigy, Leo covered in champagne.

He’s a little lightheaded because he’s forgotten to breathe.

“Yes,” Cris says. “Yes.”

And Leo just laughs, and Cris wonders what he’s imagining.

  
5\. The press is surrounding the bus even before it’s stopped. The driver’s swearing to himself, understandably stressed out about the prospect running over a journalist. Next to Leo, Cris has his headphones in, but Leo knows his iPod isn’t on. The bus stops, and everyone stands up. Leo puts a hand on Cris’s shoulder, and Cris gives him a tired smile, not cocksure, not self-congratulatory, and they’re walking off the bus.

The flashbulbs are too bright; Leo loses his balance and trips walking down the steps, falls half a step into Cris’s back, and Cris turns, steadies him. His back is straight now, sunglasses on and hiding his eyes. He doesn’t look afraid; he looks beautiful.

He grins out at the press, its a dare. There are body guards pushing the press back, but it hardly makes a difference, because it’s a mob pressing in at them. Leo’s never been too good with crowds, the push and pull of them, because he’s so little. People are shouting questions, threats, Cristiano’s name.

They make it into the hotel, temporary safety, although Leo doesn’t relax until the room’s door is locked behind him. The last time they were in Madrid, a group of fans broke into their hotel, banging on every door; indiscriminate in their hatred. Cris has flopped down his bed, his sunglasses are off now. When he notices Leo’s watching him, his face changes; the hint of a pout appears. It makes Leo laugh, despite himself.

“You’re posing again,” Leo tells him, and Cris’s pout intensifies.

“Stop it,” Cris tells him, stilling pouting, his eyes dark and serious, but Leo can’t help it - all the pressure of two points back and the hostile crowd waiting tomorrow night comes bubbling out and he laughs and laughs, because Cris looks simultaneously like a bad photo shoot and the love of his life.

Cris throws a pillow at Leo. Leo catches it and throws it back and misses. The lamp next to the bed shatters and Leo freezes, horrified.

Cris stands up, picks up the pillow and shakes it free of glass shards. “I never thought you were the kind of person who’d trash a hotel room,” he says, and hits Leo over the head with the pillow.

“What can I say,” Leo says, who doesn’t bother to dodge, accepts the inevitable. “I’m just that kind of guy.”


End file.
